


You before me

by Builder



Series: Powers/No Powers Choose-Your-Own-Adventure [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic, Vomiting, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 16:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12280074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Steve's not feeling his best, but it's clear Bucky's feeling worse.





	You before me

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt for tumblr. Fine me @Builder051.

As Steve unlocks the door and steps into the house, all he wants is a hot cup of tea.  The headache he’s been nursing all day is threatening to ratchet up into blinding territory.  He’s not quite ready to admit to the fever; it could still be his high metabolism that’s cooking him from the inside out.  But the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead and haze of achiness around his joints certainly add to his general discomfort.

 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve calls as he slips off his shoes and dumps his work bag under the coatrack.  He doesn’t mean for his voice to come out so tired-sounding, so Steve clears his throat and pads through the entryway.  There aren’t any cooking sounds coming from the kitchen or TV sounds in the living room, so he fully expects to see Bucky at the table hunched over his laptop or a magazine.

 

The entirety of the downstairs seems deserted.  No lights are on in the kitchen or living room, and even the bathroom is dark.  Steve’s about to go upstairs and see if maybe Bucky decided to take a nap in the bedroom when there’s a soft creaking of something stirring on the couch.

 

“Bucky?” Steve asks, approaching the sofa.  Bucky’s face-down, and his right arm is folded around his head while his stump shoulder is thrust into the crack between the seat cushions and the back.  Steve recognizes the crumpled posture, though he hasn’t seen it for months.

 

“What’s going on?” Steve murmurs quietly, sinking to his knees at Bucky’s side.  The question doesn’t feel gentle enough leaving his tongue, but Steve thinks it’s a better ask than ‘are you ok,’ to which the answer is already decidedly ‘no.’ 

 

“It’s all…gone to shit,” Bucky breathes into the couch cushions, his voice a muffled exhalation against the velour upholstery. 

 

“I’m gonna touch you, ok?” Steve warns him before dropping his palm onto Bucky’s back, which is vibrating with minute tremors.  Bucky flinches, then relaxes slightly.

 

“You’re at home.  In Falls Church.  It’s 2017.  You’re with me,” Steve intones.  “You’re safe.”  There’s no obvious trigger, no kids playing too loudly or cars backfiring or neighbors doing yard work.  The offending event could’ve happened hours ago.  And if Bucky’s still this shaken up, Steve’s not going to make him talk about it.  “You’re safe, ok.”

 

“I, it’s…I don’t know…”Bucky mumbles.  His body heat is enticing, and Steve wishes the couch was wide enough for him to sprawl at Bucky’s side.  He settles for resting his throbby forehead on Bucky’s shoulder.

 

“You don’t have to know,” Steve says.  “You’re gonna be ok.”

 

Bucky shifts slightly, pressing into Steve’s touch.  “You’re doing fine,” Steve keeps up the encouraging murmur.

 

Bucky unwinds his arm from around his head.  Steve straightens up to gaze into Bucky’s pale face.  “You’re doing good,” Steve whispers.

 

His eyes are bloodshot; his jaw is trembling.  Bucky looks so sick that Steve deems himself in perfect health by comparison.  Steve’s still unconsciously intoning, “You’re ok,” when Bucky starts to swallow convulsively. 

 

“You’re gonna barf.”  There’s no time for anything but a desperate off-balance tug to get Bucky leaning over the coffee table, because god knows the hardwood will be easier to clean than the carpet.

 

Steve’s stomach clenches in sympathy as Bucky throws up all over the table and a week-old TV Guide.  He coughs through a final retch, then breaks into shallow empty breaths.

 

“Ok, ok,” Steve guides Bucky through a few deep breaths, but ends up just squeezing him close and counting him down from 10.  Bucky’s not filling his lungs until 6, but he’s still limp by 1.  Steve thinks he can feel Bucky’s thrumming heartbeat in his own chest.

 

“Sorry,” Bucky gasps.

 

“It’s fine,” Steve says.  “You’re ok.  That’s all that matters.”  Steve lets his eyes drift closed and presses his cheek to the top of Bucky’s head. 

 

When they finally separate by a few inches, cold air fills the void where Bucky’s warm body had been pressed to Steve’s front.  “Alright,” Steve asks.  “What’s your headache at?”

 

“Hm,” Bucky sighs.  “Six.  Maybe…Seven?”

 

Steve firmly rates his own discomfort at a four and suppresses it as best he can.  He brings over painkillers and water, then sees to cleaning up the coffee table.  When the living room is finally sanitized and smelling of Lysol, Steve glances back at Bucky, who has his head tipped back against the sofa cushions and might be dozing.  The prospect of a cup of tea beckons from the kitchen, and Steve slips across the open room to boil the kettle.

 

As he lights the stove, Steve notices the clock flashing 12:00.  The microwave’s doing the same thing, and he concludes the power must’ve blinked earlier.  He imagines Bucky, confused, watching lights and electronics flicker on and off without warning.  Steve’s hit with a gut punch of guilt for leaving Bucky home alone before logic kicks back in and reminds him that he can’t be responsible for every tiny detail of Bucky’s life.  He’s doing so well, after all.  And one sickening flashback-ridden panic attack every 3 months is an immense improvement from one every few days.  Still, Steve wonders if the landlord would oppose the installation of a backup generator…

 

The kettle starts to hiss, and Steve turns off the burner before it can turn to a screech and set Bucky off again.  He throws a peppermint tea bag into a mug, pours the hot water, and holds the steaming cup between his hands.  Steve retrieves the bottle of ibuprofen from where he’s left it on the counter and swallows the same dose he’s just given Bucky.  Then he leans back against the cabinets, the line of the countertop pressing pleasantly against his sore lower back.

 

Steve has his eyes closed.  He inhales the scent and vapor of his tea, then sniffs again to keep his nose from dripping.  He hopes whatever pathogen his body’s fighting will move on and out quickly.  He can’t waste time feeling poorly when there are more important things to think about.

 

“Don’t feel good?” 

 

Steve’s so zoned out he hadn’t heard Bucky’s footsteps approaching.

 

“Yeah, I know.  Do you want to just get in bed?” He asks.

 

“No, you don’t feel very good, do you?”  Bucky asks.  Steve must’ve missed the question mark in Bucky’s slightly gravelly voice the first time.

 

Steve’s instinct is to say he’s fine, but the lie doesn’t seem like it’ll do a lot of good.  After he’s spent so much time encouraging Bucky to be open with him, Steve feels like he owes it to him to return the favor. 

 

“Mm.  Yeah, not great,” Steve admits.  He can’t help but backtrack a little.  “Not that bad, though.  Just, like the start of a cold.  It’ll be gone in the morning.”  None of it’s a lie.

 

“You should take care of yourself,” Bucky says.  “Not just me.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve sighs in reluctant agreement.  A glance at his watch shows him that it’s still the dinner hour, but his exhaustion and the darkness in the house and outside makes it feel much later.

 

Bucky fixes himself a cup of tea.  They sip side by side for a while.  Then Steve starts to busy himself with the reprogramming of the digital clocks on the kitchen appliances. 

 

“Leave it, ok?” Bucky says, twisting his fingers into the fabric at the hem of Steve’s shirt.  “Worry later. Just relax right now.  You’re always good at telling me that.”

 

Steve smiles and shakes his head.  The painful throb is still there, but less zealous.  Bucky’s arm comes around his shoulders, and though he still smells of sweat and sickness, the gesture makes him feel better too.

 


End file.
